


before you

by haetae



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurot (Final Fantasy XIV), Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Character Death, Character Study, Developing Friendships, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Grief/Mourning, I Tried, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Pre-Canon, Soulmates, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 10:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20599559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haetae/pseuds/haetae
Summary: For a very brief moment, they were back in the workshops critiquing and building Concepts when they were younger. For a moment, they were friends again.





	1. Chapter 1

Atlas wept as they held up the barrier.

The Doom finally came and consumed everything. Zodiark loomed over the horizon like an ominous shadow, threatening to swallow all in its wake. But Atlas had to hold out. They only needed a few more moments until the summoning was finished.

The very edges of their awareness prickled. Alarm bells rang in their head. There was something dangerous coming, but it felt terrifyingly familiar. Atlas searched blindly through their awareness, clumsy with exhaustion. Who was it? It couldn’t be the Members of the Convocation. No, Atlas and the others were far beyond the outskirts of Amaurot, beyond their awareness. Unless― 

A red mask came into view.

Dread crept through their body like a chill. The barrier grew heavier.

Atlas blinked. Suddenly, Hades was in front of them. They could feel the cloying Darkness tainting his soul. When Hades slowly pulled off his mask, they could not recognize the cold look in their friend’s eyes. Atlas tore their gaze away as nausea frothed uneasily in their chest.

“… Always the one to carry others’ burdens,” Hades muttered, with a hint of disgust coloring the last word. _ Burdens. _It made them want to shrink in on themself.

Atlas had not the strength to speak nor bite back with a scathing jab of their own. They only needed to hold out for a few moments longer.

Hades looked up and examined the barrier as though it was another budding Concept. For a very brief moment, they were back in the workshops critiquing and building Concepts when they were younger. For a moment, they were friends again.

But Amaurot was in ruins. Death pervaded the air as ash clung to the roof of Atlas’s mouth. Zodiark howled for blood in the distance. The barrier dug into their shoulders. 

“My, my. You’ve outdone yourself with this one. I doubt even Lahabrea could break through this.” Hades remarked lightly, and tapped on the barrier as though to test its integrity. It did not waver. He clicked his tongue in disappointment and then turned his eyes to Atlas.

“But I am not Lahabrea, and I know _ you_.”

His Sigil flared to life. Trickles of Darkness began to curl around his limbs. He raised his hand, fingers poised to snap.

Atlas steeled themself and squeezed their eyes shut.

* * *

Long before the Doom threatens to swallow the star whole, they are colleagues. Albeit, colleagues who are distant (if not abrasive) to each other.

Emet-Selch and Lahabrea are debating in front of the Convocation over the logistics of a particular proposal for new sector within Amaurot when the doors crash open. All heads turn towards a harried, irritated Atarsamain slowly regaining their breath at the doorway. They stomp towards their empty seat and collapse into it with little affair, all without a single word said.

“You are late,” Elidibus says redundantly.

“Sorry,” Atarsamain replies, not sounding sorry at all. “There was an emergency.”

At this, Elidibus sharpens his attention. “What sort of emergency were you tending to?”

Atarsamain stiffens ever so slightly. “… Doesn’t matter. The issue has been dealt with.”

Elidibus’s lips tug into a dissatisfied frown. Atarsamain has always been vague about these things. But pushing the matter any further right now would be in distaste since the Convocation is already in the midst of a debate.

“We will speak later,” he says. Emet-Selch stifles his amusement when Atarsamain audibly groans. Then Elidibus turns his attention towards Emet-Selch and Lahabrea again. “Continue.”

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes behind his mask as his debate partner (if Lahabrea can be called as such—Emet-Selch suspects he just loves the sound of his own voice) grumbles irritably. The debate continues anyway, as though Atarsamain had never interrupted it with their tardiness in the first place. 

Not many envy the Atarsamain office. It means monitoring both Concepts and ecosystems with intense scrutiny, with a side helping of mountainous paperwork, to ensure nothing took too much from the star and that the star continues thriving. Of course, when the inevitable explosion or mishap happens and the delicate aetheric balance is disrupted, Atarsamain must correct it before the disruption spreads and the star itself becomes unstable.

In short, Atarsamain is a glorified janitor.

But the current holder of the title is… unorthodox, to say the least. Aside from their disturbing tendency to express themself so openly, the circumstances surrounding their succession are rather suspect. Their predecessor retired after she conferred her gift of hearing the star’s whispers to her heir―a middling, average Akademia student with an uncanny talent for sensing (or, as Emet-Selch is wont to believe, causing) trouble. Why the previous Atarsamain gave up her seat, much less to an ordinary student, is anyone’s guess at this point.

There’s no denying the current one’s abilities, of course. They have gone above and beyond in their duty to keep the star stable. But the Convocation is on edge around Atarsamain for good reason. To hear the star’s whispers is to know terrible things, after all.

And that is to say nothing about their cavalier attitude towards their fellow Convocation members.

When Lahabrea begins to expound on the necessities of procedures in a dry, verbose manner, Atarsamain speaks up for the first time since their arrival.

“That will take too long.”

Lahabrea bristles. Emet-Selch watches Atarsamain, mildly intrigued. They rarely speak up in meetings like this—what made them change their mind this time?

“Emergency protocol must be more efficient. When people are in danger, the procedures must reflect that,” Atarsamain says.

Lahabrea scoffs. “If you are so experienced in such matters, what do _ you _ propose?”

Atarsamain’s smile is hard and flinty. They lace their fingers together. “Simple. Install alarms in as many buildings as possible. Have a specialized force of protectors stationed somewhere accessible so they can be dispatched quickly and smoothly. Calibrating the aetheryte routes to accommodate evacuation procedures shouldn’t be difficult.”

Emet-Selch suddenly wishes that he’d skipped out on this meeting altogether. He already has a headache at the thought of implementing that proposal.

“The alarms and stations are of no issue, but calibrating the aetherytes isn’t as easy as you assume,” he says, his tone more biting than he means to reveal. “Aetherytes are still in the testing stage, and I’m hesitant to put them to use in this manner.”

“Then Atarsamain can help you refine them,” Lahabrea suggests smugly. “Clearly they have the expertise needed.”

His coworkers are annoying to work with, but Emet-Selch has never wished to murder them as much as he does now. Whatever, he can handle them. This is not the first time two colleagues have banded together against one for the sake of amusement.

Elidibus hums, clearly interested in the idea. Emet-Selch curses inwardly. Damn it.

“I see. Then I will assign Atarsamain to this project with you, Emet-Selch.”

He resists the urge to bang his head against the stand. _ Creation take him. _

* * *

True to form, Atarsamain is late to their first meeting for the upcoming project.

Hades drums his fingers against his desk. He is patient, but still annoyed at the fact that he’s stuck working together with _ them _ of all people. Oh, he’s read up on the other members of the Convocation—and he expects that the others have read his profile as well—but he has little information on the individual behind the Atarsamain title aside from their true name and a few noteworthy incidents from their time as a student in the Anyder Akademia.

He’s in the middle of contemplating whether he should complain to Elidibus or send more paperwork to him out of spite when the door to his office opens.

An individual with hair colored like stormy seas steps inside. What’s more disturbing, however, is that they don’t have a mask to shield their icy gaze. His skin prickles uncomfortably when their eyes focus on him. They nod in greeting.

“Emet-Selch. Or do you go by Hades?”

He raises an eyebrow. So the greenhorn isn’t as ignorant as he expected. Good, he won’t need to hold their hand throughout this collaboration. Hades folds his hands.

“I don’t believe we’re acquainted―unless you are Atarsamain, who is twenty minutes late for our first meeting. Or do you prefer Atlas?”

“Atlas is fine, thank you.” The individual nods again, nonplussed, and takes a seat across from Hades.

He doesn’t know what to make of them, to be honest, since all of his interactions with them are restricted to meetings with the Convocation. All he has is a catalogue of behaviors, but nothing about their working process or personality. 

The corner of Atlas’s mouth quirks up into a half-smile.

“Are you uncomfortable about my face? If so, I can put my mask back on.”

Hades tries not to let his feelings show. Any Amaurotine who isn’t family or friend would feel awkward around those who are unmasked.

“I’ll adjust,” he says, neutrally. Then, “Any reason for your tardiness this time?”

Suddenly Atlas looks as though they’ve aged a millennium older.

“Elidibus scolded me for being late. Then I got lost on my way here.” They shrug helplessly as their mouth twists into a sardonic smile. “Ironic, right?”

Hades hums. He has a small amount of pity for them. Elidibus can be ridiculously self-righteous and profuse when he wants to be. But, ultimately, he expects them to be punctual anyway and avoid wasting everyone’s time. Hades has better things to do―like take a nap or drink coffee.

“My condolences, then,” he drawls. “Try not to earn any more lectures on punctuality.”

Atlas barks a surprised laugh. This time, their grin is full of teeth. “No promises.”

* * *

Working with them isn’t as awful as Hades first expects. In fact, their style of working complements his in unexpected ways.

Atlas is very good at honing in on wellsprings of aether. They’re also annoyingly skilled at double-checking Hades’s measurements and adjusting them in ways that better suit the situation. One thing they have in common is that they both study the pros and cons of each design choice. The only problem is that Atlas will jump the gun while Hades is slow in execution. Being an architect requires caution and systemic approaches, after all. The janitor is simply too used to getting things done quickly.

“It’d be easier if we channel the aetheryte route through here,” Atlas argues as they circle the route within the Polyleritae District. “There aren’t many obstructions, it’s direct, and fast.”

Hades rolls his eyes. “Oh right, the bridge there doesn’t count as an _ obstruction_. Don’t you know that people use that as a shortcut to the Akademia? If you build a route through there, it’ll become overwhelmed by the frequent traffic, then it won’t send you to the shelter as intended. It’ll just send you towards some other random destination. Or you might get stuck in the Rift. Neither option is appealing.”

At least Atlas has the humility to look chagrined. “Noted. Then… wait, this looks like a good route. Free of bridges and all.”

Hades squints. “We’ll have to adjust the surrounding area but…”

The pair go back and forth like this until they’ve at least planned out five solid aetheryte routes. There are still other things left to do, but drafts for the new sector are pretty much finished. They both lean back from the drafting table and stretch out stiffened limbs. Atlas is the first to stand from their seat, albeit on wobbly legs.

“I’m gonna pass out for the next two years,” they declare. “Don’t bother me unless it’s an emergency.”

“No need to worry on that front. I’m sure there will be an emergency in the next hour or so for you,” Hades quips. “As for me, I’ll be napping for a decade once installation finishes.”

Atlas rolls their eyes. “Must be nice to have nothing to do.”

Hades grins. “Most certainly.”

Atlas scowls at him. With a snap of their fingers, Atlas teleports out of Hades’s office. Just as he starts to extract himself from his seat, Hades notices a slip of paper where Atlas had been mere minutes ago. Curious, he picks it up. He flips it over to see scrawling chicken scratch admonishing him. 

> _ go to the kitchen and eat something, you damn workaholic - A _

He raises an eyebrow. How did they notice he didn’t eat anything? And how did they find the time to get food when they were stuck with him all day? Oh well, he might as well check his kitchen to see if they’ve rigged it with any weird traps out of some sense of petty vengeance for getting this assignment with him (never mind the fact that Atlas is the reason they’re stuck together at all in the first place). After all, Atlas is at that age where they’re still prone to juvenile mischief.

When he strolls into his modestly equipped kitchen, he is pleasantly surprised by the simple if well-made spread of eggs, meat, and vegetables soaked in some savory sauce. He picks up an eating utensil and tries a bit of the egg—the taste is satisfactory and unexpectedly rich.

Huh, so Atlas has a penchant for cooking. It occurs to him that they might be using him as some sort of culinary guinea pig, but Hades isn’t going to discourage them if they’re going to hand him free food like this.

He digs into the meal. 

* * *

The Doom came from the star itself.

Everyone was already on edge after hearing news from other cities. How they had mysteriously fallen to beasts of terrible forms, unnatural disasters wiping out swathes of land, and so on. The people needed some kind of reassurance, and the Convocation decided that they needed more data on this rumored malady. A group of specialized field researchers headed by Atlas set out towards one of the affected areas to capture a specimen.

Sixteen people left. Only four came back.

The reports of the three surviving field researchers were unreliable at best. Most of them were incoherent babbles about a terrible groan from the earth itself before they were set upon by the vicious beast they deemed Archaeotania_. _ Only Atlas seemed fit enough to give a full, detailed, accurate report of the events that transpired during Archaeotania’s capture.

Except Hades doubted Atlas was fit to attend the meeting at all when he saw them limp in. Though they held their head high, he could see that not all of their injuries had healed completely. They favored their right leg and a bandage nearly covered half of their face. Whatever they went through, it must’ve been bad enough that the healers couldn’t treat everything with conventional methods.

Elidibus’ face darkened. “Atarsamain. Thank you for your attendance. I hope you are well.”

How laughably inappropriate for someone who prided himself on diplomacy. But Hades didn’t feel the usual urge to poke fun at Elidibus at the moment.

Atlas didn’t seem to care and nodded, their face grim.

“Well enough.” Then they addressed the rest of the Convocation with uncharacteristic stoicism. “As you all may have gathered by now, things are worse than we expected.”

The room darkened and the large, round meeting table gave way to a three-dimensional projection of a large, horrid beast with a jagged maw that stretched too wide. Hades hoped that the Aynder Akademia had the facilities to house and contain such a monster.

“This is Archaeotania. We were able to ascertain its origins from a nearby allied city, which had fallen by the time we encountered this creature,” Atlas explained grimly. The others were not surprised, but the pain of having lost one of their allies stung all the same. Then Atlas continued, “Its abilities were beyond anything we’ve seen in any known fauna. For one, it was intelligent enough to spring an ambush on us.”

At this, the Convocation stirred. They had no information on the rumored beasts until now, but this boded ill for everyone. No one could slip past the Atarsamain’s notice that easily. Even Atlas themself seemed shaken as they recounted the events.

“We lost three researchers in the initial contact. There were difficulties with coordination due to the beast’s wide range of attacks. When we finally managed to subdue it, we had lost five more. Containing it also proved to be another challenge—its size wasn’t the issue, but the beast itself was somehow rendering our containment unit null while unconscious.”

Now the members of the Convocation were murmuring amongst themselves. The Akademia’s containment units were rivalled to none.

“I had to come up with a new containment unit to specifically house this specimen,” Atlas said, to answer the unspoken questions hanging from the tip of every member’s tongue. “It was a shoddy, archaic solution, but the best I could come up with at the time. As of this morning, I received word that the containment unit is still holding steady. But I don’t know how much longer it will last.”

Lahabrea was the first to speak up. “How did the beast affect the containment unit we provided your party? Last we checked, nothing should’ve tampered with them.”

Atlas sighed, but not out of exasperation. “Here’s where things get really bad.”

_ As if losing half the party to capture a single specimen wasn’t already bad enough_, Hades thought hysterically.

“The Doom is directly caused by the star. And the star either amplifies Creation magicks to dangerous degrees, or renders Creations useless.

“The reports of the survivors correlate with what I experienced: shortly after we had successfully contained the beast, there was a groan from deep within the earth. When I tried to sense what was wrong, the star nearly killed me.”

The Convocation lost their breath. Atlas, for their part, remained gravely neutral.

“That groan was _ the star screaming in pain_,” they stressed, their voice wavering ever so slightly. Hades noted this distantly as Atlas continued in a cold, analytical tone, “Archaeotania isn’t just a byproduct of the Doom, it is but one _ fragment _ of the Doom.”

The projection of the horrid beast shrank as Atlas called up an image of their star. The star’s once tranquil, pale core had turned blood red as its surface was peppered, if not outright covered, in that awful color save for the sole region that represented Amaurot. Several more images popped up beside the star: meteors falling, the earth tearing apart and swallowing up whole cities in its yawning maw, beasts prowling and devouring all who stood in their way—all of that linked back to the blood red core.

The grim reality of their situation hit Hades full force. The Doom wasn’t some random outbreak they could contain or counter―it was the _ star_, corrupted and dying. How did you go about fixing a dying star?

Atlas was dangerously quiet when they spoke again.

“When I regained my senses from sharing the star’s pain, four of our party had been taken by the Doom. We had to leave them behind.”

Hades could see their frame tremble and their hands curl into tight fists. The losses weighed heavy on their shoulders. 

“Were you also tainted by the Doom?” Loghrif hedged.

Atlas’s face suddenly turned blank, like a slate wiped clean. A chill crept up Hades’s spine.

Their voice was mild. “No. Otherwise, I would not be here.”

Something in him wanted to recoil from that reaction. He was so used to Atlas emoting that seeing them act so _ lifelessly _ raised his hackles. But Atlas didn’t seem to notice his nor the Convocation’s discomfort as they snapped their fingers. The images of Archaeotania and endless destruction melted away, leaving only the star and its blighted red core.

“Archaeotania is just the beginning. The Doom is coming. It won’t be long until it’s here, and when it does there will be a reckoning beyond imagination.”

Igeyorhm, for her part, calmly stood from her seat. “Atarsamain. Your job was to monitor the star’s health. How did it deteriorate so quickly on _ your _ watch?”

Atlas continued in that infuriatingly blank voice, “When I listened to the star, I realized this was millenia in the making. Our reliance on Creation magicks was draining the star, generation by generation, until it weakened to this point. The warning signs came too little and too late. And now we are here.”

The silence that fell upon the Convocation was deafening. Hades couldn’t help but flinch when Atlas leaned forward with a hard, flinty look in their eyes.

“I did my duty. Now do yours.”

* * *

Atlas caught their breath as they leaned against some rubble for support and cover. 

Of course Hades brought backup. Of course Atlas had to retreat―which was rather timed well, considering that the summoner before them had finally played their part to the end. Now it was Atlas’s turn to finish everything.

They needed only a moment’s rest before they had to move on. Their sole focus was getting to the center of Amaurot so they could finalize the summoning. They just needed to keep pushing, just a little further until they saw the cracked pieces of that aetheryte. Dragging themself up, they staggered towards their destination with a single-minded determination.

Amaurot under Zodiark’s rule was a cruel monument of the city they remembered, frozen in time. The buildings and streets were strangely immaculate. The trees stood in neat little rows, like they always had. Even the streetlights functioned normally. One might assume that the Doom had never arrived at all. But upon closer inspection, Atlas saw that there were no lights in the buildings to indicate anyone was there. There was no birdsong nor lively chatter in the cold, stagnant air. The trees were frozen, for there was no wind to rustle leaves. The most damning thing of all was that there were no people anywhere. 

Atlas didn’t think to break into a building, but they had a sinking feeling that they would not find another Amaurotine here. They clenched their teeth and moved on. Soon enough, this farce would end and life would continue without Zodiark threatening to continue a cycle of consuming and stagnation in perpetuity. 

By the time Atlas reached the aetheryte, the Convocation was waiting for them.

“One last chance,” Elidibus offered. “Join us in resurrecting our fallen brethren, and you may yet live.”

Atlas resisted the urge to roll their eyes. That was incredibly cliche, but they couldn’t fault Zodiark for being unimaginative.

“Unfortunately, I’m not planning to live.”

Their smile was defiant, grim. Then, they plunged their hand into their own chest.

“Project… Hydaelyn,” Atlas choked out, curling their fingers around their core. With a feral roar, they ripped it out. A faintly glowing crystal shard rested in their shaking palm. Their voice thinned to a pained rasp. “… Activate final phase.”

[ PRIMAL HYDAELYN ACTIVATED. USER CONFIRMED. INITIATING SOUL EXTRACTION. 87 PERCENT UNTIL COMPLETION. ]

In a burst of blinding light, Hydaelyn began taking form from the crystal. Atlas held it aloft, and watched as Hydaelyn absorbed their leaking life force. She gently pulsed with each memory, each heartbeat She ate.

Atlas did not have the strength to look up, but there was no need. A great keen filled the air.

[ PRIMAL HYDAELYN COMPLETE. INITIATING FORMATION: ENERVATE. ]

It was done.

* * *

“Why do you care so much?” Hades asks.

Atlas looks up from the papers they’re grading. “Care about what?”

Hades gestures to the papers, as though that explains everything. And it does, to an extent―who in their right mind would voluntarily tutor children deemed problematic by their _ caretakers_? His own distaste of them notwithstanding, teaching rambunctious children who refuse to learn is only an exercise in futility (and an incredible test of patience). If their own caretakers have given up on them, then there’s not much of a chance to reform them.

But Atlas is smiling, like they know something he doesn’t. He narrows his eyes and silently prompts Atlas to say their piece.

“I was just as bad as these kids when I was growing up,” they say quietly, smoothing out a wrinkle in one student’s paper. “What they need is a guiding hand and for someone to believe in them. I had neither of those, growing up.”

Hades shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He had little issue during his own childhood—he simply did what everyone else did. Perhaps having grown up with someone else, especially someone like Hythlodaeus, also helped. He’s heard of caretakers taking on one child rather than a cluster for various reasons, but those are few and far in between because of the inherent unpredictability a sole child posed. It makes sense that Atlas was one of those raised without a cluster. At least with a cluster, the children are more likely to be uniform in many respects.

“Well, at least you didn’t end up terrible,” he drawls. “And now you can inflict that saccharine attitude of yours on the rest of the population as vengeance.”

Atlas laughs, shoulders hunched in like a turtle. They gather their students’ papers into a neat little pile. “I just think everyone deserves a chance.”

“Even those who waste them?” Hades counters. He finishes the last of his own reports before arranging them into an orderly bundle. After he sets them aside in his inventory, he fixes Atlas with an exasperated look. “You can only do so much before you run yourself ragged.”

At this, Atlas stills for a second. Then they smile stiffly.

“I’ve wasted a good many chances myself. It took me a bit, but I finally got my shit together. Who knows? Maybe someone else will need that one extra push.”

Hades doesn’t blink at the profanity, but he’s beginning to understand why Atlas is so _ off _ compared to the rest of Amaurotine society.

“If you say so,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hades seethes as the gods scream in the sky.
> 
> _Did our friendship mean nothing to you?_

The veil over his eyes finally lifts, long enough to see his friend  _ plunge their hand into their chest _ .

He stands frozen in mute horror as Atlas rips out their own soul core. The analytical part of his mind distantly realizes that they’re using their own soul as the base for the Tainted One. Another part of him wants to stop Atlas and shake them.  _ Have they lost their sense? _

But it’s too late. Hydaelyn has finished forming. The newborn goddess lets out a great keen before crashing against Zodiark.

Amaurot burns anew, the recently healed buildings and trees falling apart like soft clay under the weight of two gods’ wills clashing. The rest of the Convocation begin to flee, but Hades can’t look away from Atlas’s lifeless body. They died with a soft smile on their bruised face.

Why did they go so far for some aimless lifeforms that will die not even a century from now? Their lives are so fleeting, so short. Atlas could’ve lived forever if they hadn’t gotten caught up in this Hydaelyn mess. How could they refuse the Dark One? How could they shun their fellow Amaurotines for mere shades? This isn’t fair. How  _ dare _ they turn from Amaurot. They betrayed  _ Him _ .

Hades seethes as the gods scream in the sky.

_ Did our friendship mean nothing to you? _

* * *

Hades idly lets loose paper planes in his office as Hythlodaeus smiles at him knowingly. Damn him and his annoyingly chipper moods. He  _ always _ bullies Hades.

“How is your partner?” Hythlodaeus asks with a certain glee that reminds Hades of a nosy coworker fishing for new gossip. Maybe that’s where Pashtarot gets that from. Or did they influence Hythlodaeus? Either way, it’s annoying.

Hades only shrugs, just to spite him. Unfortunately, Hythlodaeus isn’t so easily deterred. He only grins wider instead. 

“I see. And how is the Emet-Selch title treating you? Hopefully your predecessor didn’t leave behind any messes.”

Hades grinds his teeth, much to his friend’s amusement. They both know why Hades is in this seat instead of Hythlodaeus in the first place. If only he’d gotten away from that thrice-damned candidacy at the time… alas, he did not, and now he is here. He longs for those days when he whiled away his hours with naps and soul-watching, utterly devoid of endless paperwork. It’s little wonder why Hythlodaeus wanted out of this office so much.

“You,” he growls, and slaps down a pile of wretched paperwork, “have left behind an awful amount of complaints.”

Hythlodaeus gives him a remorseless shrug.

“Thanks for your hard work!” he chirps irreverently. “Speaking of hard work, you should take a break. I’ve even ordered us some nice lunch.”

Hades tries not to let his disappointment show. He was actually looking forward to that nap he’d planned after catching up with his old friend.

“Alright,” Hades says with as much neutrality as he can muster. Hythlodaeus, for some reason, still has that infuriating smile on his face. Hades narrows his eyes. Just as he opens his mouth to comment on it, someone knocks on his door. 

He doesn’t remember inviting anyone else to his office.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind my guest!” says Hythlodaeus as he rises from his seat and answers the door.

Atlas blinks as they linger at the entrance.

“Oh,” they say quietly. Their eyes keep flickering between Hades and Hythlodaeus. “I didn’t know you knew each other.” Then realization flashes across their pale eyes and they make an expression of fond exasperation at Hythlodaeus. “I should’ve known something was up when you invited me here, Daeus.”

What a small world. Hades didn’t know that they knew each other either, let alone call each other nicknames. Though he can’t see his face from this angle, he knows that Hythlodaeus has a shit-eating grin right now. 

“I’m full of surprises,” says Hythlodaeus.

“So you are,” says Hades. 

“Indeed,” says Atlas, as they enter and set down their basket of lunch. “I’m glad to know my company is only wanted for free food.”

Hythlodaeus pouts at Atlas, like a petulant child.

“Don’t be like that, my dear—we all enjoy your culinarian pursuits!” Then Hythlodaeus turns to his friend with a conspiratory grin. “Isn’t that right, Hades?”

Hades scowls.

“It is satisfactory,” he says with a haughty sniff and crosses his arms.

But, to his surprise, Atlas actually lights up at the meager praise.

“Truly? Daeus told me you were picky about food, so I’m glad that you find it decent enough for your taste,” they babble. Hythlodaeus tries and fails to hide an amused snort at Hades’ expense. Hades reaches over to smack Hythlodaeus’ mask off. Atlas continues, either oblivious or purposefully ignoring the background bickering: “I’ve tried a new recipe and I think I fairly good job with this batch.”

They open the basket lid and stick their entire arm in it, rummaging around for something. Hythlodaeus and Hades pause and lean in to get a better look at whatever Atlas is searching for. Atlas makes a noise and pulls out three wrapped bundles. They unwrap one to reveal a lovely sandwich of some kind.

“Here, try this.” Atlas hands it to Hades.

He takes it, his chest feeling nauseatingly warm, and smiles. 

* * *

Atlas stared at the written proposal.

The numbers didn’t register, no matter how many times Atlas read them. A million, million souls to save the star. That number had to include at least a hundred large families, several thousand clusters, too many children―all sacrificed for the sake of survival.

The Convocation was looking to Atarsamain for verifying the proposal’s logistics, not for approval. They would go through with this plan, regardless of everyone’s feelings about it, because there was no other way. Either they rewrote the star’s laws so Project Zodiark could stop the Doom, or everyone perished. It was an easy choice to make, really.

Except it was bullshit. Atlas didn’t want any part of this. The Convocation could dress it up in all the pretty, noble words they liked, but they were committing a massacre with this proposal. There had to be another way. There  _ had _ to be―Atlas knew in their heart that the star was crying out for help, not for blood. It could be saved without killing so many, let alone their own people.

If Project Zodiark came to pass, the resulting Creation still required some form of sustenance—it required souls. A countless amount of souls for a Creation this massive. An inhumane amount.

But what could they do? Atlas was only one person. A single soul could not stop the Doom. That much was proven during their disastrous expedition and extraction of Archeotania. This was not the time for careless planning. They needed help, and discretion. Who knew what the Convocation would do if one of their own was actively working against them? But Atlas had to, in spite of the risks. 

As they flexed their fingers still wrapped in bandages, they realized what had to be done. They studied their copy of the proposal, taking note of the mechanics behind the Creation and its summoning. Atlas had to swallow down the bile that rose to their throat every time their eyes landed on the word “sacrifice”. As if the Convocation was actually sacrificing anything of their own for this thrice-damned project. As if that word actually meant anything to them.

Hades would argue that their lives were too important and that the sacrifices were necessary to protect what remained of the Amaurotines. They needed to live so they could control the populace in the aftermath, after all. Bring order and law to a ruined land. Hythlodaeus was too on the fence—understood the reasons behind Project Zodiark, but he didn’t like them nonetheless.

Neither of them understood the inhumanity of it all. None of those sacrifices had a choice. It was either die by a trusted hand, or die by the plague. Atlas used that fury as fuel for the hard days ahead.

But by the time they had fully conceptualized Project Hydaelyn, the Doom came. Like always, they were too late. Too late to stop the massacre from happening. Too late to stave off the Doom for a little longer. Too late, too late—

They didn’t stick around for the second round of sacrifices.

* * *

Hades doesn’t mean to stumble across Atlas’ tour. Now he’s an unwilling chaperone to a cluster of three little ones as Atlas leads their group through the visitor-friendly section of the Phytobiology facility.

“And here is the latest batch of mandragoras that the current Halmarult is cultivating,” Atlas says in a notably soft voice. “Be sure not to raise your voice too much—these ones need their beauty sleep.”

The clustermates all look to each other. The tallest one—the children barely reach Atlas’ hip—slaps a hand over their mouth, while another slaps a hand over the shortest one’s mask. The cluster devolves into a petty squabble. Atlas laughs quietly and pats each of their heads, gently admonishing them for their behavior. Hades has never seen Atlas so… soft. They have a fond look in their eyes as they lead the children further down the garden. He follows for a lack of anything better to do.

He watches Atlas guide the children around the other facilities of the Akadaemia, but he notices how their eyes light up when they show the children the planetarium sector. Atlas delights in how the children are awed by the living star map on the ceiling, the astronomical telescope pointed towards the heavens, the humongous table reserved for drawing out constellations and calculating the distances between stars. Hades almost smiles at the children practically swarming Atlas with questions. To his surprise, Atlas answers each question patiently and easily. In another life, they would’ve been a great caretaker.

Alas, they are the Atarsamain in this life.

When the tour finally finishes and Atlas releases the cluster to their caretaker, Hades can’t help but wonder if Atlas had their own to look after or wished for such a thing.

“You were certainly enjoying yourself,” he notes.

Atlas shrugs. “It’s hard not to, when they’re so excited to learn more about the world around them.”

“Would you ever consider raising your own? Adoption is getting popular, I’ve heard.” Hades feels himself tense when Atlas aims a suspicious look at him. He raises his hands as if to defend himself. “I’m only saying that since you seem to _like_ children.”

To his relief, Atlas relents. “You’d be correct in that one regard. But… I would rather wait. For a better opportunity.”

Hades grins and nudges them with an elbow. “Oh? Waiting for a suitable lover to—”

Atlas flicks at Hades’ mask, nearly knocking the damn thing off his face. He rears back and hurriedly fixes it, cursing under his breath, as Atlas scoffs.

“Don’t be so crude,” says Atlas. “Besides, wasn’t Hythlodaeus badgering you about children?”

Hades feels his face heat and smacks at Atlas’ mask. Except, Atlas deftly dodges the half-hearted swipe and sticks their tongue out at him. Hades scowls.

“Shut up.”


	3. glimpse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The previous Atarsamain left behind a coded journal, of all things. She didn’t give Atlas any hints about the cipher either―instead, trusting them that they’d decode it on their own or guard its secrets for the next successor. 
> 
> Atlas is beginning to wonder if their old caretaker wanted them to keep it safe instead.

The previous Atarsamain left behind a coded journal, of all things. She didn’t give Atlas any hints about the cipher either―instead, trusting them that they’d decode it on their own or guard its secrets for the next successor. 

Atlas is beginning to wonder if their old caretaker wanted them to keep it safe instead.

Cracking ciphers isn’t their specialty, but they have at least some basic understanding on the subject. The only problem is that the cipher used isn’t anything like Atlas has ever seen before. They can’t really scour any available libraries for such things like these—especially not when Atlas is the current Atarsamain. That’d bring too much attention to themself and, by extension, to the journal. So Atlas keeps the journal safe within their home as they settle into their new role as best they can.

They almost forget the journal exists until Hythlodaeus comes around for lunch and chatters about something or another over how someone had proposed a Concept of _ automata _, constructed lifeforms that obeyed every single word of their masters—something about the idea of total, complete obedience makes Atlas’s skin crawl, set their teeth on edge—

“What’s this?”

Atlas carefully stills when Hythlodaeus points out a wooden box sitting on their bedside dresser.

They remember Epione gently pressing that box into their hands, telling them in soft tones how the first Atarsamain had carved the box out of a fallen tree to soothe the young Star, who grieved over the tree. Tradition dictated that the box be passed down to the next Atarsamain—to remind them of their duty and their connection to the Star.

(“We are among the few who can hear and speak to the planet’s voice,” Epione solemnly told her young charge. “We have a duty to honor our home.”)

Atlas remembers the secret within that box. 

(“But why _ me? _” Atlas whispers hotly, angrily, with fingers curling protectively around the box. They are undeserving of this legacy. The box is smooth to touch, worn and cherished over its long lifetime.

Epione’s answering smile is sad. “Because I would trust none other with such a burden.”

Atlas watches her walk out the door with a briefcase stuffed with supplies for a long journey. They never see her again.)

“Something important to me,” they answer honestly. Atlas watches Hythlodaeus’s eyes, and holds their breath.

“I see,” Hythlodaeus says, and (mercifully) leaves it at that.

The tension slowly uncoils from Atlas’s body. They can tell Hythlodaeus is curious, but they’re willing to let this one secret lie between them. Atlas is grateful for the unspoken trust. Yet it’s only a matter of time before someone else finds out about the box and its secrets. Amaurot is a good city, with good people—but even good people do bad things.

Atlas swallows thickly and ushers Hythlodaeus out of the room before packing up enough food for two and heading out to their usual spot near the bridge. Lunch is a casual, if a bit strained, affair. Admittedly, Atlas is distracted for most of it and lets Hythlodaeus talk about anything and everything under the sun.

They need to figure out the cipher, and soon. There has to be a reason why their caretaker left this journal before leaving the city for good. 

Atlas steels themself, and decides to visit the library later in the week disguised as a student from the Akadaemia. Gaining entry is easy—no one questions a student studying in the library, after all. It’s so easy that, for a moment, they wonder why they didn’t do this earlier. When they look through the despairingly tiny section on cryptography, they start to wonder if they can ever unlock the secrets of that thrice-damned journal.

They haul back a good number of texts, with some tomes on the history of architecture and biological processes thrown in to avoid suspicion. Atlas gets to work for the next few days.

On the fifth day, the pieces of the puzzle finally, _ finally _ click into place. Atlas drags out the journal in a wild-eyed frenzy and rereads it in an entirely new light. The entries are dated, but Atlas hasn’t quite figured out the cipher for the dating system used. What matters more is the content.

One page reads:

> _ The Star’s voice is quieter than usual. Perhaps it’s because of the change in weather—winter is melting towards spring and the Star is still slowly waking up from the cold, I’d imagine. _

Atlas flips to a later page.

> _ The Star is still quiet. I have to strain myself to listen. It’s getting harder and harder to listen to the Star’s words. Recently, I’ve discovered early decay in a few flora specimens. Normally, this would not be cause for concern but… I wonder. _

The private study room is deathly silent save for the occasional crinkle of paper turning.

> _ This is only a hypothesis, but the signs keep piling up. When I attempted to commune with the Star, I very briefly felt a wane in its power. Usually, the Star is thrumming in energy—spiking when it is angry or sorrowful or joyous. But it felt… more diminished, in a way. _
> 
> _ Just as life is brought into the world, it must return in death. The last recorded death was a century ago. _
> 
> _ I cannot help but wonder. Were we meant to live for so long? _

Atlas freezes. Suddenly the world shrinks until there is only damning words on old pages.

> _ There is something towards the west. I cannot tell what it is. The Star has stopped speaking altogether, only giving me brief images of horrible things. Fire raining down from the sky. Beasts devouring cities. The earth splitting open with a terrible groan. _
> 
> _ Something has happened, and I intend to find out what it is. _

That is the last entry.

Epione’s elegant handwriting stares up at Atlas, as if reminding them that this is the only physical trace of their caretaker left to them. They close the journal. Inhales, exhales slowly. They open the journal and read it from cover to cover at least three times over.

Then they burn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this written up before 5.2 and blew everyone's expectations out of the water. it was going to include two other sections too but i had the hardest time writing them out, so i figured i might as well publish what i had finished.
> 
> let me know what you guys think!


	4. grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were times when Hythlodaeus wondered what could’ve happened had he not met Hades.

There were times when Hythlodaeus wondered what could’ve happened had he not met Hades.

It was an uncomfortable line of thought, to be sure. They’d known each other almost their entire lives, to the point where they knew the shade of each others’ souls, the curve of one’s smirk, the other’s calluses by heart. It would be the same as asking what it would’ve been like to live without your other half. Though Hythlodaeus might find that a little too melodramatic (and somewhat cliche, like most things), it was the only analogy that fit best in this hypothetical scenario.

The only problem with that was not accounting for his own death. What Hades would do without _him_ instead of the other way around. Worse: he learns this at the end of the world.

He is in the middle of looking for the rogue Convocation member, the sole dissenter of Project Zodiark, when the first meteor lands in Amaurot. When he turns, he sees his home on fire. Hythlodaeus is unable to look away, because his soft heart cannot withstand the sight of his home being eaten alive by flame and terror, the sound of innocents screaming. He thinks of Hades and his heart shudders.

So he goes back, and never comes back out.

* * *

When he next awakes, he is left with the ruins of his other half.

Hades is no longer the tall, proud, regal man Hythlodaeus remembers, but a hollow shell grasping for the remnants of precious memories. But he doesn’t have the real memories of the original Hythlodaeus—he is merely some specter borne from a grieving soul’s attempts to cope with his lost world. All he feels is an echo, if barely, of that unfathomable grief.

He spends his time wandering the rubble of Amaurot, but he never goes beyond Hades’ limits, as vast as they are. Here and there are more specters gossiping about some scholar’s latest blunder; a pack of younglings following their caretaker on an errand; the receptionists idling their time away at their posts; the growing dread taking root as the star’s imploding death creeps ever so closer to their fair city.

But, rest assured, the Convocation of Fourteen will find an answer to this madness. Rest assured, all will be well ere the Final Days arrive at their doorstep. Rest assured, this can be solved. All will be well.

Hades has made a perfect recreation of the mundane lives the Amaurotines led until the end of the world.

Hythlodaeus is strangely aware that this has already come to pass. Like how one knows the shape of the callus on their left thumb; knows the glittering, vast darkness that makes up the night sky; knows that Amaurot's scattered remains sleep in the depths of the ocean—it is an immutable fact.

Perhaps Hades knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Hythlodaeus would’ve seen through this farce with one look. That he would’ve looked past the illusions to peer into Hades’ heart and lay bare the truth of the matter. That he would _remember_.

But Hythlodaeus is already gone, blasted to fourteen different shards after the Sundering along with everyone else. In his place is nothing but a ghost.

Hades knows this—he has gotten carried away in his nostalgia—and yet. He stares up at Hythlodaeus, yearning for what once was. He wants to shed himself of this fragile vessel altogether just to caress the ephemeral angles of his other half’s face, and yet.

And yet, he does not. Instead, he stares and stares, as though he will never get enough of his fill. 

And then he turns away.

* * *

He wanders across the streets of his old (dead) home when he sees _them_.

They’re surrounded by smaller souls of paler shades but he knows the color of their soul as closely as the familiar, subtle tint in Hades’ blackened one. 

For a moment, he wonders if his old friend had come back to life, then he realizes their soul is blinding with Light, the very same that shattered their star into fourteen fragments. Something is keeping it from consuming the soul altogether… ah. He can barely see the faint outline of another soul standing beside them, but it’s there. Hythlodaeus can't help but grin.

The motley of little ones split up, and the bright, burning beacon charters a path around Amaurot. He follows.

Somehow, he finds himself waiting his turn in the Bureau of the Secretariat. He needs his official documents detailing his candidacy for the office of Emet-Selch—or was it to file a complaint against Hades for overworking? He doesn’t remember. All he knows is that he’s waiting for something—or someone? Hm. How queer that he’s losing track of memories now. In any case, he has an appointment to fulfill. He cranes his head, surveying the sparse building for an empty seat.

Then he sees _them_. They’re dangling their legs on a bench far too large for their size, waiting. 

For a frightening moment, he feels as though the air has been punched out of his lungs. 

Then he smiles. Though the form is much tinier than expected, he would know the hue of this soul too. They’re—or, in this case, were—friends. And though he can barely make out the silhouette hovering beside them, he recognizes the same color in that soul too.

He approaches them.

“May I?”

They smile at him. The gesture takes him off-guard—always had taken him off-guard. He grins wider under his mask and takes his seat, mindful of his new old friend’s size.

They look at him with a curious gaze. Hythlodaeus thinks the slight ache in his chest might be some secondhand nostalgia, the yearning of a past he does not remember. He has the sudden urge to say something—to pass on the tragedy of his people, the tragedy of his other half. Someone must remember these stories, lest they be lost forever. The apocalypse no longer looms over his head, but his existence is as fragile as the sea bubbles that float by this vast, isolated graveyard come alive with ghosts of the past. An illusion conjured from a lonely soul’s immeasurable grief.

_They_ always had good memory. He can trust them with this.

So he tells them a story of Amaurot’s final days.

When the receptionist calls the Warrior of Darkness’ name, he knows their shared time is up.

He gives them one last fond gaze as he memorizes the color of their eyes, the curves of their face, and angle of their smile. The secretary calls their name again in that same, droning voice. Maybe the receptionist will disappear without a whisper too. Maybe they won’t, and they’ll be stuck droning on in that same voice until Hades’ magic finally lets go of that grief, that anger, that corruption. But Hythlodaeus knows better.

He smiles instead.

“Fare you well, my new old friend.”

When the Warrior of Darkness turns back, no one is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got possessed by something and wrote about hythlodaeus but i'm not sure i did him justice. he was just such an enigmatic and sad character... 
> 
> please let me know what you think in the comments!

**Author's Note:**

> i've been poking at this draft for well over two months now and i'm just glad to finally post this. lmk what y'all think kdsfjklj i'm mostly feeling *vague hand gestures* about this


End file.
